Chapter Text
The great hall of Eden Academy shimmered beneath the midday sun of a winter’s day. The light filtered through tall, arched windows and spilled across the walls of pure Ostanian granite, casting long, elegant shadows onto the polished mahogany floor. Anya could feel the cool weight of the stone building through the soles of her shoes.
They were brand new shoes, which had perfectly polished black leather. Her socks were new too, in contrast they were bright white, knee-length, and soft against her skin. The gentle fabric was comforting, something small and steady keeping her grounded on a day that had her stomach in knots. There were only so many ways she could try to boost her confidence today and most of them were tied to her appearance such as her hair. Today it was sleek and frizz-free from the hot brush her mother had used that morning. The ends curled into soft ringlets that shone as they fell neatly over her shoulders.
The final touch had come from Becky. Her best friend had gifted her a rose coloured compact with a pink powder for the temples of her cheeks and a subtle shimmer powder for beneath her eyes. It was just enough to cover the stress of a sleepless night, and just subtle enough to abide by Eden’s strict grooming rules. The perfect small sparkly act of friendship.
“Now, on to our new Imperial Scholars for this spring’s commencement,” the master of ceremonies announced, his voice echoing through the vaulted space.
Eden Academy was considered one of the finest schools in all of Ostania—perhaps the entire world. Its students were the brightest of their generation, selected through rigorous testing and relentless standards, even from the primary years. Starting in Year Eight, students could earn Stella Stars, granted for exceptional academic, athletic, or civic achievement. Eight Stella Stars meant elevation to the highest student rank: Imperial Scholar . But only twice a year did the school formally recognise new scholars—once before the spring semester, and once before the autumn.
Though they were named for the seasons, Anya found the ceremonies anything but pleasant as a spectator. The autumn one had been stiflingly hot and sweaty since it took place in late August/early September which in her opinion was still late summer. This one, despite the name, felt more like the beginning of winter as it was only early January.
Her name had yet to be called, but Anya knew it would come. She had earned her Stella Stars steadily: four from placing among the top scorers in classical language exams across four semesters, two more from ranking in the top ten at the Ostanian high school tennis tournament, another from tutoring struggling younger students through Eden’s merciless curriculum, and one final star awarded at the end of the previous term. It was for organising a fundraiser and volunteer effort to support chronically ill children at the hospital where her father worked.
“Anya Forger.”
Her name rang through the chamber. Her heart gave a stuttered beat. She inhaled once, then stepped forward.
All eyes turned to her. Including those of her parents in the crowd. Her parents, who had worked so hard to ensure that she could attend Eden Academy. All of their efforts had not been in vain, for she had definitely proven her worth as a student now.
She crossed the long stretch of polished floor toward the headmaster’s podium, her steps steady despite the way her stomach twisted. Only four students were receiving cloaks today, and she was the youngest and thus last to be called.
She was proud. She knew she’d earned this. But the ache in her chest was hard to ignore. No one else from her grade had made it this time, not yet. Becky had been close. So had a few others. The next autumn ceremony would probably be full of familiar faces.
But today, it was her turn and for now, she stood alone.
A senior faculty member—someone Anya had never spoken to before—stepped forward, holding the Imperial Scholar’s cloak with practiced reverence. The fabric was a solid black but a deeper shade than the typical Eden uniforms and was lined with a deep dark red satin that caught the light with every fold. It was cut precisely to fall just past the waist, its design unmistakably ceremonial. The cloak wasn’t meant to be practical. It was meant to be heavy and cumbersome. Thus signifying the duties and responsibilities that now came with it.
As the cloak settled over Anya’s shoulders, she felt the weight of it immediately, not just the physical weight, but the pressure of what it meant. The fabric was thick and finely tailored, meant to sit perfectly over the Eden uniform. But what came next made her shoulders stiffen.
The headmaster approached with a gold cord. Not gold-coloured— actual gold. Forged, braided, polished. It gleamed as he clipped it across her chest, fastening the cloak just below the collar of her blazer. It sat snugly against her uniform, and yet she felt it like a chain, cold and unmistakable.
“This cord,” the headmaster said, his voice calm but ceremonial, “represents the strength of knowledge, and the weight of responsibility that binds an Imperial Scholar to our highest values.”
He adjusted the length slightly, but it was already perfectly measured for her.
“It is said,” he continued, pausing for effect, “that the original cords were melted down from the honorary medallions and academic laurels surrendered by Eden’s founding scholars—given up not for glory, but for the future. For this institution. For peace.”
The last word echoed in the high ceilings, as though it carried some deeper charge.
The gold cord clicked into place with an audible clasp—quiet, but final. She felt the metal shift ever so slightly with her breath. Tethering her in place.
She was now, officially, one of them.
Her legs felt heavier with each step as she moved toward the waiting row of Imperial Scholars. She knew exactly where to stand—Eden’s traditions made sure of that. Scholars were arranged by year, then by order of achievement.
Which meant she’d be standing next to him.
The only other Imperial Scholar from her grade.
Damian Desmond.
He had been awarded the title at the previous autumn commencement—alone, just like her. He was the first in their class to reach it, and for months, he’d remained the only one.
Until now.
Anya took her place beside him, her heart pounding despite herself.
He didn’t look at her.
He stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Typical. He always acted like nothing ever touched him, like the world owed him its silence.
Behind them, a few upperclassmen whispered quiet congratulations.
“Well done, Forger.”
“Welcome to the club, its about time.”
“Congrats! You were amazing in the finals.”
Voices she recognised—students from the tennis team, from advanced lectures, from student council events. Their words were hushed but sincere.
Anya gave the faintest nod, eyes forward. Through the opening in the curtain, she caught sight of her parents—radiant with pride. Becky was still clapping like it was the Olympics. And even Arnold, Freddie, and Tertius were applauding, their easy, lopsided grins making her heart squeeze.
Her cheeks flushed before she could stop it. She hadn’t expected that.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Damian shift.
For a moment—a breath—she thought he might glance her way. Maybe say something. A nod. A quiet congrats. They were both Imperial Scholars now. Their duties would tie them together for the rest of the year—meetings, expectations, long hours. Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally drop the act. Acknowledge her. Treat her like an equal.
“Guess they’re letting just anyone be a Scholar these days, tch” he muttered, just under his breath.
Anya blinked. Her breath caught—barely.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But the heat in her face shifted from flustered to something colder.
It didn’t sting—not really. Not after years of this. But still… she’d hoped. Just a little, but no o f course he would ruin this. He would always find a way to make her feel small.
She hated him. She always had. Even when they were children. Especially then. And the years between them had done nothing to soften it—only honed it into something quieter, sharper.
She should be celebrating. She’d worked for this. She deserved this.
And yet, all she could feel was the dread she’d been holding back for weeks. She had known it would come to this—the moment she stepped into this new world, it would already be overshadowed. By him , of all people.
She wouldn’t just be stuck with Damian Desmond at every formal event and Scholar gathering.
She’d be living with him.
It was required of all Imperial Scholars, boarding or commuter, to reside in the Imperial Scholars’ Dormitory, a stately building tucked beside the equally exclusive Imperial Scholars’ Tower on Eden’s campus. Both were shrouded in mystery. Only Scholars were permitted inside, aside from parents during certain sanctioned events.
The following weeks passed in a blur as Anya tried to adjust. She’d said goodbye to her parents with tears in her eyes, her voice catching as she hugged them tightly at the school gates. She missed their tiny Berlint apartment. It was warm and worn in all the right ways. She missed the scent of her father’s morning coffee, her mother humming while she got ready for work. She missed Bond, her dog, who always slept curled at the foot of her bed.
Her new suite in the Imperial Dormitory was spacious, perfectly furnished, and emotionally vacant. The sheets were crisp, the view spectacular, and the air always just slightly too cold. It had everything she needed, and none of what she wanted.
She knew it was silly to be this upset. She’d go home for breaks. She’d see her family again. This wasn’t forever.
But that didn’t change how it felt now .
Most nights, she fell asleep without much trouble. But on the harder ones, she’d wake before dawn, reaching instinctively for Bond before remembering he wasn’t there.
And sometimes, with her face buried in a stiff pillow and the golden cord of her Scholar’s cloak catching the faint light from the window as it glittered softly in the dark where it hung over the door of her wardrobe like a shadow, she would cry. Just a few tears. Just enough to feel foolish.
And she wished she could go home.
Becoming an Imperial Scholar was meant to be a reward—for hard work, talent, and achievement. But at Eden Academy, rewards always came with responsibilities. And not all of them were glamorous.
Imperial Scholars were expected to contribute actively to the school. Senior Scholars could hand out Tonitrus Bolts and Stella Stars, just like the faculty. They served on student disciplinary committees, voted on policy changes that impacted the entire student body, and acted—publicly, at least—as model citizens of Eden.
Then there were the less impressive duties.
Nightwatch was one of them.
In winter, it started early and ended late. The lowest-ranking Scholars—usually the newest or youngest—were assigned rotating shifts from sundown until midnight, patrolling the campus grounds to make sure no one had snuck out to meet their secret crush or smuggled in contraband. It was boring, thankless, and always freezing.
Anya drew the short straw barely a week into her new role.
“Sorry, Forger,” said Charlie, one of the graduating Scholars, flashing her an apologetic smile. “Since you’re the newest, you’ll be taking the last shift this week—ten to midnight. You’ll be relieving Pattinson.”
Charlie was tall, golden-haired, and effortlessly charming—the kind of student who already had his post-Eden future paved for him. He was rumoured to be in the running for top graduate this year, but Anya had found him surprisingly warm. He always spoke to her with kindness and without the faintest trace of superiority.
“Oh, that’s fine! No problem,” Anya said quickly, managing a smile. “I know Patricia—er, Pattinson—from tennis. I’ll ask her to walk me through it, if that’s okay?”
“Of course,” Charlie said, nodding. “She’s solid. You’ll be fine.”
Later that day, Anya found Patricia behind the gym building, unwinding after practice with her usual no-nonsense expression.
“Nightwatch isn’t bad,” Patricia said as she stretched. “Mostly just walking in circles. Sometimes you catch a couple making out in the gardens, or someone trying to sneak a bottle of wine into the dorms. Mostly, it’s just cold. And quiet.”
She paused, then added, “But… you’ll be stuck with him, you know.”
Anya blinked. “Desmond?”
Patricia made a face. “Yeah. Last semester, I had every shift with him. He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Just stomps around like he owns the place. Honestly? I can talk to Charlie. I wouldn’t mind switching—I’d rather do it with you.”
Anya hesitated. “No… thanks. I’ll be fine.”
And she would be. Probably.
Charlie and Patricia were kind. Real. Like her, they’d worked their way up. They were commoners who’d earned their place among Eden’s elite through persistence and talent. They never made her feel out of place—not once. Charlie was respectful, even encouraging. Patricia, despite her bluntness, had offered to swap shifts just so Anya wouldn’t have to deal with Damian.
But people like them were the exception.
The rest of the Imperial Scholars—especially the ones from Eden’s oldest, wealthiest families—were nothing like that.
Anya was used to the dynamic by now. At Eden, privilege didn’t always wear a uniform. It was stitched into names, woven into accents, inherited in family legacies. Even as a child, she’d known which students walked like the school belonged to them, and which ones moved carefully, quietly, trying not to take up too much space.
But in the Imperial Scholars’ domain, that line was even sharper. The commoners here, even the respected ones like Charlie, still felt like guests in someone else's home. And Anya—new, young, and still watched by everyone—felt it constantly.
There had already been several incidents. Little things, technically.
The sharp laughter when she asked where she was supposed to do her laundry.
The sideways glances when she offered to help the dorm mothers clean.
Someone giggling behind a closed door when they saw her heating soup she'd been gifted by her parents from home in the shared kitchen.
Petty things. But meant to sting.
Anya had learned not to let it get to her. The students who taunted her were the ones raised with suffocating expectations, under constant pressure to be flawless—to impress fathers who rarely smiled, or mothers who never missed a single misstep.
She’d decided, long ago, to pity them instead.
If taking it out on her helped them feel better, then fine. Let them.
But Damian Desmond had always been the worst of them.
Even as a child.
It was the first day of first grade.
Anya had thought the hard part was over—that awful exam, the tense interview, the long goodbye at the gate. Her father and mother—technically her stepmother, but the only one she’d ever known—had both come to see her off. Yor had knelt to fix her collar and hug her tight, while Loid crouched to whisper something steady and kind in her ear, the kind of words that made her feel brave.
She had been nervous. But not alone. Her heart had been full.
The gates of Eden closed behind her, and everything changed.
The students stood in stiff rows, uniforms pressed, faces blank. The building behind them loomed like something out of a cold fairy tale, the type to warn children, with its stone walls, high windows, polished floors. Her name had been called, and she stepped forward with shaking legs.
Then she saw him .
A boy, a little taller than her, with dark, slightly messy hair and sharp golden eyes. He stood near the front, unreadable at first, until he noticed her. His gaze narrowed. Then a smirk crept across his face, like he’d just spotted something weak.
“You there,” he said, stepping toward her with the confidence of someone who’d never been told no. “What does your father do? Depending on how important he is, maybe you’ll get to be friends with me.”
His tone was smug. Rehearsed. Like he’d heard those words in his own house a hundred times.
Anya hesitated. “He’s a… psy…” she stumbled deciding to go with the phrasing her parents and others had always found amusing. “A feelings doctor.”
The boy snorted. “Tch. He’s no one, then. And so are you. Get out of my way.”
Before she could even process what he’d said, he shoved her.
She fell hard. Her hands hit the polished floor, and her knees scraped against it. It hurt. The kids in kindergarten had never been this mean. Her throat tightened. Her eyes stung. The tears began to fall.
And then—he laughed.
“Look at this little uggo , crying like a baby on her first day!” his voice was beaming as he pointed at her.
A few of the students laughed too.
Anya’s face flushed. Her breath caught. And then—
“Hey!”
A girl with glossy brown hair pulled into two pigtails stepped forward, offering her a hand. “You don’t need to be such a bully ,” she snapped at the boy.
Anya looked up, surprised.
“I’m Becky Blackbell,” the girl added, her chin lifting. “Unlike him , I’m civilised.”
Before Anya could respond, two boys flanked the one who had shoved her. One had a towering mess of blond hair, the other a round face and a bowl cut.
“Hey!” said the blond one. “You can’t talk to Lord Damian like that.”
“Yeah!” the other added. “His dad’s the head of the Unity Party. He basically owns the country, and commoners like you should respect that!”
Anya rubbed her sore arm and looked at the boy who had pushed her. She didn't know what a lord was, or why those other boys were acting like it was such a big deal. And the other word--commoner--she'd never been called that before. It sounded bad, like something you weren't supposed to be.
Her heart thudded. But her parents had told her what to do about bullies.
She got to her feet.
“What you said isn't true,” she said, voice trembling but strong. “My father is important. He helps people who are hurting every day, and everyone at the hospital looks up to him. He makes sure Mama and I are safe, and happy. He’s the best father in the world.”
She pointed straight at Damian, her eyes fierce even if tears were still falling.
“He even worked extra hours all week just so he could be here today—to see me off, because he loves me. So don’t you dare say otherwise!”
She turned, and there they were— still there —just beyond the gates, waving.
Her chest swelled.
“Papa! Mama! I’ll be the hardest-working student here!” she called out. “I’ll make you proud!”
Damian flinched like he’d been punched in the face.
Not physically. But something in his expression cracked—just for a second. His smirk vanished. His mouth opened, as if to say something, but no sound came.
Before Anya could fully register the look on his face, a teacher clapped their hands sharply.
“First years! This way—quickly now, form a line!”
The moment was swept away in the shuffle.
Damian turned his face away, shoulders tight.
Becky gave a satisfied nod. “Come on,” she said, linking her arm through Anya’s. “You can sit with me.”
Years had passed since that first day, but somehow, not enough had changed.
Anya stood now in the courtyard of Eden Academy, clutching an old-fashioned lantern. The flame flickered against the glass as the cold bit at her nose and ears.
The air was sharp and dry, her breath fogging with every exhale. Above her, the moon hung full and enormous, casting everything in a silvery haze. The snow from the afternoon had frozen over into a glittering crust, making the grounds sparkle.
She glanced down at her watch.
Ten minutes past ten.
Desmond still hadn’t shown up.
Patricia had explained that last semester, she and Desmond used to split the campus territory, he took one side, she the other. Maybe that’s what he was doing now. Maybe he’d already started without her. Or maybe—far more likely—he just couldn’t be bothered to give her the time of day.
She sighed, adjusting the cloak around her shoulders. She wasn’t even used to the thing yet its weight shifted oddly with every step.
Without thinking, she stepped forward—and didn’t hear the soft plop of metal hitting frostbitten grass.
The keys Patricia had given her had slipped from her cloak, as she mistakenly tried to put the keys there instead of her blazer’s pocket, as the muscle memory wasn’t there yet.
The cold was setting in fast, and she wanted to get moving. Her side of the patrol covered the chicken coops and the practice football field, both miserable in the freezing wind and then finally the school greenhouse.
The field had been empty and endless, the kind of cold that clung to her socks until they felt damp. One of the chickens had startled her awake, of course it had been a rooster and she’d nearly dropped the lantern.
By the time she reached the greenhouse, she was too chilled to feel her fingers.
The warmth inside was instant. Humid. Sweet-smelling. A miracle.
She held up her lantern and glanced around. Rows of fruit trees, raised beds, trailing vines, and tiered shelving. It was where Eden grew most of its vegetables and herbs, even some of the flowers used in ceremonies. But now it was dim, sleepy, perfectly still.
She exhaled in relief and turned toward the side door.
It didn’t budge.
Locked.
Anya frowned, pulling back and blinking. Then she remembered something Patricia had warned her about.
“Oh—the greenhouse is annoying. It locks from the inside after eleven. That’s why you have to keep the keys on you at all times.”
Anya’s stomach dropped.
She looked at her watch.
Five minutes past eleven.
She patted her blazer. Her cloak.
Nothing.
Then slowly, carefully, turned back to the shadowed path she’d come from.
The keys were gone.
She stared into the dark where the keys should’ve been, but there was nothing. No glint of metal in the grass. No chance of slipping back into the dorms unnoticed. The greenhouse was sealed. The door behind her had clicked into place as it closed, and without those keys… she was stuck.
Her breath clouded in the air as panic set in.
She’d have to stay here. All night. On her first patrol.
The Imperial Scholars would find out. They’d laugh. Maybe someone had already seen her blundering around alone with that stupid lantern. Maybe they’d been the ones to shut the door on her . Just another “commoner” messing up.
Her eyes burned suddenly. She blinked fast.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry here.
Her bed. She missed her bed. The warm blankets. The way Bond used to sleep at her feet. Her parents talking softly in the other room. The scent of Yor’s tea or Loid’s quiet cooking late at night.
This place—this dorm, this title, this cloak—none of it felt like hers . Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The lantern’s glow flickered in the corner. She didn’t have the energy to hold it anymore. She sank down onto the soil-stained floor, hugging her knees to her chest, the cloak bunching awkwardly around her.
Outside, the moon hung high above the glass ceiling, massive and luminous. It lit the greenhouse in silver and shadow, casting long pale lines through the branches above her. The leaves glittered, slick with condensation. Even the air shimmered faintly, like the world had been covered in a translucent snow-like silk. She would have appreciated the beauty if it all if it weren’t for the cold and the humiliation she knew was coming.
But for a moment, as the moonlight touched her face, something loosened inside her chest.
It was just light. Just a reflection, but it felt like warmth .
She closed her eyes.
Then she heard the door creak open.
Her head shot up. She turned.
And there he was.
Damian Desmond.
Her stomach dropped. Of course. Just what she needed—a telling off from him. Maybe she really would’ve preferred spending the night in here alone.
Anya already dreaded having to deal with him. She couldn’t help but imagine how it would go— of course he’d show up late and then act like it was her fault. He’d charge up with his nose in the air, his entire being composed of pure, unbearable condescension.
His hair would be a mess, like always, because he couldn’t stop clawing at it in frustration—probably over some stupidly elitist problem no one else cared about. He’d glare at her with that perma-scowl glued to his face like it was sculpted there.
And even though he was a star athlete, there was always something… off about his posture. Like he was too tightly wound. Too rigid. Like being raised by a dozen generations of Ostanian nobles had made it physically impossible for him to be carefree or normal.
And then there were his eyes. Always dull. Always glaring. Always framed by those deep, dark bags from never sleeping because of course he was constantly overexerting himself, constantly trying to prove something.
Just looking at him made her feel tired.
Everything about Damian Desmond, she hated.
She could hear him now:
“Forger,” he muttered, just as cold as she expected. “An idiot like always. I knew you couldn’t handle this.”
She clenched her jaw as she prepared herself to just take it. It would only last a moment.
“Oh—Anya. There you are. I was worried.”
Her mind went blank.
Did he just say… Anya? Did he just say he was worried?
He was suddenly by her side, moving fast, his steps soft on the dirt. Then—his arms were around her. Tightly.
“I’m glad you’re alright,” he murmured into her shoulder, voice gentle. His body was warm.
Anya didn’t move.
Surely this was a joke.
She blinked.
Then looked up at him.
His face was soft—his eyes were clear, warmer than she’d ever seen. His skin glowed faintly in the moonlight, and his posture even kneeled down next to her was… different. Less guarded. Steadier. Even his hair looked a little smoother, like the cold night air had calmed it.
He looked like he’d finally slept.
He looked happy.
Happy to see her.
And—worst of all —he looked… kind of cute.
In a soft, boyish way she had never, ever associated with Damian Desmond.
Before she could say anything—before her brain could catch up to her heart—he pulled back, still holding her shoulders gently.
“Oh,” he said, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m so happy you’re finally an Imperial Scholar.”
She stared at him.
He gave her a warm, earnest nod. “Well done.”